


And Thus Weep The Children

by spindlekiss



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Draco Malfoy, Aurors, Past Child Abuse, Politics, Receptionist Harry Potter, Unrepentant Wanker Lucius Malfoy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 15:01:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7645819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spindlekiss/pseuds/spindlekiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Darkness is the first thing Harry knows, after the war he wants to see light.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Thus Weep The Children

Dark is the first thing Harry Potter knows.

Later he will remember green light, and flying motor-cycles, and a red-haired woman screaming his name. But the dark will always be what came first.

Harry had heard war stories. Strangers cross the street to tell them to him. He smiles, and he nods, and he pats an assuring hand on unsure shoulders. Most of all, he listens. Harry had heard war stories, and he has lived them. When a young woman approaches him in the dairy aisle, begins to sob, and tells him the names of her dead children, he begins to dream them as well. 

The truth is, though Harry suffered greatly during the war, he did not suffer the most. And even though he knows what happened, the timeline of things, the way it all came about, and the indescribable hatred that allowed it to happen-- he does not understand the war. He does not understand the politics of it, or the wizarding traditions that made it possible, or the attitudes and prejudices ingrained in their community that drew the lines and threw a gauntlet. 

He does not understand why his own parents, and godparents, and friends are dead, while known death-eaters like Lucius Malfoy have been allowed to slither, once more, out of responsibility and punishment. Narcissa and Draco also live free, Harry does not begrudge them this-- spoke for them in fact. But Lucius Malfoy, who killed, and tortured, and schemed? He is a free man still, a powerful man still, a rich, well connected man still, and Harry hates him for it.

Joining the aurors is what they expect him to do, and so he does it. The training is grueling. His instructors demand the best of him, the opponents he faces are far more difficult to best than his old Hogwarts peers. Now, he must compete against students who came from smaller schools. Smaller, better schools. None of them suffered disrupted education, and though many of them knew the horror of war, they are competent wizards and witches. Unlike Harry’s, their educations were not stilted. Their knowledge is not gapped.

And so, in week ten of practical training, when Harry falls into a small cave and Peterson, who is on the blue team this game, levitates a boulder and seals the way out-- Harry cannot remember how to undo a trap ward. Dark was the first thing Harry knew. He had made a point of avoiding it during his time at Hogwarts. When Peterson comes to find him, instructor in tow, two hours later, he is unconscious. 

They share worried looks when they take in his savaged finger-nails and the bloody marks that run down the walls. 

“We don’t think you’re ready.” says Robards later. “You passed all of the practical tests, flying colours in defense, well done. But otherwise, we think you need to take a break. You failed your mental evaluation. And this is a demanding job. We need someone who is capable of handling those demands.”

“I can,” says Harry. Robards raises a grey eyebrow. “I will.” Harry amends.

“Next year then.” says Robards, closing Harry’s file with stern finality and putting it to the side.

“Fine.” says Harry. Underneath the table, his hands shake. 

 

Draco Malfoy does not fail out of auror training. Harry reads it in the newspaper. They had not trained together. Harry is glad in a jealous sort of way.

 

Harry does not like to beg, in fact he despises it. But two weeks without anything to fill his days bar watching peeling paint and a screeching portrait, this does not stop him.

“Please.” he says.

Across the table, Robards frowns. “You are not fit for auroring-- yet.”

“I- okay.”

“But, our receptionist, Sarah, she’s on maternity leave. If you can send memos, fetch coffee, and smile at guests, then you’ve got the job.”

“Yes,” says Harry. “I can do that.”

Robards sits back. “Show us that smile then, boy.”

Harry does not.

“Well come on, consider this an interview. How do you smile at guests to the auror department.”

Harry grimaces a little. Robards laughs with his belly. “You’ll get there in time. Alright then, I’ll talk with Sarah and you can start today.”

“Thankyou.” says Harry. He means it.

 

Harry, in what is likely the surprise of the century, becomes a brilliant receptionist. He is good at steady work, he enjoys walking through the city to find tea and coffee, and despite what Ron calls ‘the bloody mind-numbing repetition of it’ folding up memos into interesting shapes becomes a particular talent of his. 

“What’s that, Potter.” says Malfoy on his way in. Malfoy is not like the other aurors. Even though he is licensed to make use of the auror floo, which is located in the centre of their department (the place they call The Hub), he comes in through the front entrance every morning, and leaves through it every night.

“A phoenix.” says Harry. He touches his wand to the small folded sculpture. It flaps it’s wings and flies around Malfoy’s head. “He likes you.” Harry says grudgingly.

Malfoy smirks. “Good.”

 

What Robards had not told Harry about working reception, was that he would be privy to everything. When he is not guarding the doors or minding the floo-calls. Harry takes the minutes. When Robards has meetings, Harry is there, taking notes. When Robards does bureaucracy, Harry is there, still taking notes. 

This is how he comes into contact with Lucius Malfoy for the first time since the trials. For a man who had been so hated by the wizarding population for so long, he is doing well for himself. In fact, he has won back a number of seats, and has come, once more, to hold so much sway over the ministry that he oversees the aurors directly.

Robards hates him. And so, takes special pleasure in bringing Harry along to their meetings.

“I know you hate him. Well, me too. And I’m just vindictive enough that I think it’s only fair someone should suffer with me.”

“Oh,” says Harry dryly. “You’re the image of aurorly self-sacrifice, sir. A fine example to the men and women of this distinguished institute.”

“Aye, that I am.” agrees Robards. “Oh, bollocks. We’re here already-- I thought I told you we ought to walk slow. Lord Malfoy! A pleasure.” 

“All mine, I assure you.” says Lucius. He ignores Harry. That is his way. 

Harry had arrived early to their first meeting, and they had spent ten minutes in uncomfortable silence while they waited for Robards. Now, Harry did not leave reception until he saw Robards making his way out of the department. 

They have booked a small meeting room, they always do. Harry resists the urge to doodle some of the more gothic gargoyles into his note-paper. 

“There’s no way about it, Malfoy.” says Robards. “We need more funds.”

“Hmm.” says Lucius, perusing the data carefully. “I don’ t think that you do.” 

“Gods sake,” snaps Robards. “Speak with your son. He’s one of our finest young aurors, he knows what is going on in the department, he can tell you honestly. I trust that you trust your own son.”

Lucius inclines his head. His face is expressionless. Until, for the first time since they have begun these little chats, he turns to look at Harry.

“And what do you think, Mister Potter?”

Harry looks up from the ugliest gargoyle he has ever sketched. “Err.” he says eloquently.

Lucius sniffs disdainfully, and Harry can’t help the low burn of anger that rears it’s ugly head. The papers have been slandering him, ever since they found out he has taken a job as a glorified server. He does not need Lucius Malfoys judgement. Not when he is so unexpectedly content.

“I am the receptionist, Mister Malfoy. I’m quite sure I don’t know a thing about the budgets and politics of the auror department. I fetch the coffee.”   
“What a waste.” he says.

“Excuse me?” 

“You heard me, Mister Potter. Don’t insult yourself asking things you already know. A man of your talents working as a receptionist is the biggest waste of magical power and reputation that I’ve ever had the displeasure of witnessing. Your parents would be ashamed. You can do better.” 

“You know nothing about my parents, and--”

Lucius Malfoy laughs. It is a cold, humorless thing.

“I spoke more words with them than you did, certainly.” 

“That’s because,” says Harry, fury leaking it’s way into his voice, staining his tone. “Your master killed them. Talk about a waste of magical talent. It’s true, being a receptionist isn’t the most difficult or illustrious job out there, but at least I never bowed and scraped and put my entire family in danger for a maniac!”

“Quiet, Mister Potter.” says Robards. “I think we will adjourn. Malfoy, I’ll owl you.”

They are halfway down the hall. Robards won’t look him in the eye. When they get to the auror department. Robards calls him back.

“Wait, wait. A few words, Mister Potter.”

Harry pauses, and turns. 

Robards opens his mouth, and then closes it again. He sighs and touches his fingers to his temple. “Mister Potter. Because of your little outburst I have no doubt that renegotiating budget has just become a rather more arduous task that it would have been otherwise.”

“I’m sorry.” says Harry tightly. He’s about to be fired. Almost certainly.

“I should bloody well fire you.”

“He started it.” says Harry.

“And he’s an ignorant fool. He doesn’t know shit. I don’t want anyone in the auror department on his level.”

“I’m not.” says Harry.

Robards sighs again. “I know.”

“Am I fired?” Harry asks.

“No. But you’ll apologise to Malfoy.”

“But, sir!”

“You’ll apologise, or you’ll go home. And I’ll remember it when you apply for the aurors next year.”

Harry leans back against the door. “Fine.”

 

Harry does apologise to Lucius Malfoy. It takes him a week, but he does it.

Lucius Malfoy laughs.

Harry glares at him. 

“That, Mister Potter. Is perhaps the most insincere apology I have ever been on the receiving end of. And I have been on the receiving end of a great many insincere apologies.”

“It says a lot about the company you keep.” Harry replies.

Lucius Malfoy laughs again.

Harry glares at him some more.

Lucius raises an eyebrow. “Stop that at once. You will wrinkle.”

Harry shrugs. “Are we done then?”

“I am sure I do not know, Mister Potter. You were the one who asked to meet, if I recall correctly.”

Harry decides that honesty is the best policy. “Robards won’t let me into the aurors next year if I don’t make nice with you. So...”

“So you want me to assure him that we have... made nice?” 

“Yes.”

Lucius sips his coffee, the one Harry had bought as an olive branch. “Well, I will say one thing for you. You do know your beverages.”

Harry says nothing.

Lucius sips thoughtfully. “Are you quite certain,” he says. “That you wan to join the aurors?”

“Yes.” Harry says, without a thought.

“Give up that dream.” Lucius says.

“What? No.”

“I have read your file, boy. It’s not going to happen in this lifetime.”

“You’re lying.” says Harry. “You’re a liar.”

Lucius straightens, and flicks his wand. The chair across his desk moves back and around quickly, before is knocks into the back of Harry’s knees. He falls into it, and the chair pushes itself in at the desk. He is right across from Lucius, who is scrutinizing him closely.

“You are not a fool, Mister Potter. Whatever other failings you may be possessed of, idiocy is not one of them.”

“Thanks.” says Harry wryly. “But I don’t believe you.”

“I’m permitted to view every document in the auror department, boy. Wether it be an old gum wrapper or a top secret file. Your mental evaluation is nothing.”

“You’re right.” Harry says. “It’s nothing. That’s why I’m going to do better next year.”

Lucius steeples his fingers. “Do you want to know what it says?” he asks. “Ever been curious to know what they wrote about you?” 

“I know what they think.” says Harry tightly. “But it doesn’t matter.”

“Have you ever heard of an auror who failed their mental evaluation being admitted into the aurors the year afterwards?”

“Well,” says Harry stubbornly. “There can always be a first.”

“On the contrary, Mister Potter. There cannot.” Lucius waves his wand elegantly and a large book jumps from the shelf onto the desk. It lands with a dull thud. Lucius flicks through several pages. “Particularly,” he says triumphantly. “If there is legislature that strictly prohibits it.”

“What?” Harry gasps. He snatches the book away and reads the page quickly. “Shit.” 

“Eloquent as ever.” Lucius mutters.

“Why would he-- how? He promised!”

“This is the ministry of magic, you fool boy. Just because someone in it treats you kindly or tells you something nice, does not mean that it is true or that you can trust them. Gawain Robards has been playing this game for a long time. Having the boy who lived in your department, even as a lackey, is a coup. He knows that. He has been using that.”

“He hasn’t.” Harry insists loyally.

“He hasn’t has he? What other receptionist in this place attends meetings and represents a department alongside the head? Robards is using your image, he is pretending you have struck an accord. It’s not a terrible tactic, certainly it has worked to some degree-- he’s been lent a credence he hasn’t deserved in years, terrible head that he is. However, as a dutiful citizen with kindly intentions I feel it is my duty to warn you.”

Harry scowls. “What’s in this for you?”

“It was easy to overthrow the aurors, did you know?”

“Err..”

“In the war. Do keep up. It was easy to overthrow the aurors, and seize control for one reason.”

Here, he pauses and looks at Harry pointedly. “What reason?” Harry asks obligingly.

“Poor leadership.”

Several things click then, all at once, like pieces in a jigsaw puzzle. “You don’t like him. You want him out. Is it because you genuinely think he’s a bad leader or because he doesn’t like you?”

Lucius smiles cooly. “Both.”

Harry huffs a laugh and leans back in the chair. Its leather upholstery is much more comfortable than the swivel he has in his booth. “And I suppose you’ve got a candidate in mind.”

“Naturally.”

Harry sighs, and asks a question for the fools. “Who then?” 

“I think you know.”

Harry’s eyes widen. “No. He’s green-- in more ways than one. They won’t go for it.”

“With the right kind of support,” Lucius says. “And a good campaign--”

“You can’t. And I won’t help you.”

“Gawain Robards is a tired old man. He’s ineffective.”

“I don’t like you, I barely tolerate your son. Why on earth, would you think that I might--”

Lucius leans forward and interrupts him. “I have access to all of the files, because I am an important person. Because I am an important person, I can rewrite legislature, and I can annul evaluations. If you help us, I will make sure that your evaluation doesn’t see the light of day. You can be an auror.”

“That’s... a fairly good incentive.” Harry admits. “But I’d rather know that someone worthy had the role. Someone who was strong, and honest, and a good auror. Someone who deserved it.”

“Mister Potter, it is not your job, or your right, to decide who deserves what. Honesty doesn’t matter-- the truth is subjective. Strength is in perception. And my son is the best auror in the force.” 

“Well, he’s decent.” Harry says. “I don’t know that I’d go that far, but--”

“Draco Malfoy will be head auror,” Lucius says, in tones that brook no argument. “Wether you lend your support or not. The only difference is how long it takes.”

 

Harry does not like Lucius Malfoy. But recently, he has come to realise that choosing the lesser of two evils is something honourable on it’s own. And now that Harry is watching, Gawain Robards is not exactly a shining beacon of goodness. 

Excepting Harry, Gawain Robards is rude to everyone who works for him. Gawain Robards does not concede. And, perhaps worst of all, Gawain Robards is a bigot. 

He is not perhaps, what Harry would call your general wizarding bigot, no. Gawain Robards carries with him what are generally considered muggle hates. He does not listen to Amity Maggslaw, who is the only female squad leader in their department. When they are stuck on the elevator with Stew Coote and Rickard Stigetti from games and sports-- Robards stands away and steps off the elevator a little more quickly than usual, as though the gay is catching. They are small things, things that Harry wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been looking. 

Nevertheless, his dissatisfaction with his boss grows. He wonders briefly, what Robards would think if he knew the rumours about Harry-- the ones that said he didn’t go with women because he preferred something else-- were true.

Harry becomes confused. The indecision eats at him and he feels stuck. He is reluctant to quit his job, returning once more to empty days is an even less appealing prospect than his bigoted boss or Lucius Malfoys schemes. 

He decides in the end, to speak with Hermione. It is a Friday night. Both she and Ron have come over for movies and beer. Now that they don’t see each other every day in class, this is their most honoured tradition. Harry is just coming through the door with his groceries when he hears the floo go. Hermione comes out first, Harry can tell by the soft but clumsy footfall. When Ron comes through it’s heavier but more sure-- from years of ingrown practice. 

“I’m just coming.” Harry calls. 

“No worries.” replied Ron. 

Harry hears the television go on. “OII!” he yells, coming down the hall. “No sodding football on my telly.”

Ron shows him a grin and a rude hand gesture before he sits on the remote and ignores him.

“Arse.” says Harry. “Hermione?” he calls.

“In the kitchen.” he hears through the walls.

He heads further down, making sure to show old Mrs Black the very same hand Ron had shown him just moments before. She’s still cursing him as he walks into the kitchen and sits at the bench. 

Hermione is scrubbing furiously at an orange patch in her white shirt.

“What did you do?” he asks.

“It’s not what I did, it’s what Ronald did.” she says waspishly. “We brought take-away. It’s in the fridge, and it’s not coming out of this fabric.”

“Mrs Weasley lent me some super magical stain removing potion if you want to put it through a wash.”

Hermione sighed. “Yes please.”

“Hang on, I’ll grab a jumper. Green or...” he thinks about it. “Purple?”

Hermione laughs. “I'll settle for clean.”

Harry grins and runs up to his room. “Potion’s in the laundry.” he calls as he goes.

He fetches her the cleanest looking jumper he can find, a comfy blue thing with pink polker dots that Luna had knitted him for christmas. 

When he returns with the jumper Hermione has already put her shirt in the machine.

“Here.” he says, thrusting the jumper at her and turning away quickly. “Put your tits away.”

Hermione laughs. “Nothing you haven’t seen before.”

Harry remembers camping with Hermione. There was far less nudity than she liked to imply to Ron.

“Sadly.” he says balefully.

“You should get a boyfriend.” she says. In the irritatingly optimistic tones of one who had found their soul-mate when they were eleven years old. “When’d you get this?”

“Christmas.” Harry replies shortly. “Put it bloody well on. I feel disturbed.”

“Nothing you haven't seen before.” Hermione repeats.

“Not much there to see.” Harry retorts snottily.

“Harry Potter!” Hermione exclaims, slapping his arm. 

Ron walks in then, Hermione hurriedly pulls the jumper on. “Err,” says Harry. “How bout this weather?”

Ron eyes them. “What’re we talking about.”

“My breasts.” says Hermione. 

“Oh my god.” says Harry as she saunters out. The tips of Ron’s ears have turned red, and he is squinting at Harry the way he did when Harry was dating Ginny. “Please tell Hermione that I want no part in your foreplay.”

Ron grins salaciously. “You couldn’t keep up with us.”

“True,” says Harry dryly. “I was pure and innocent before I met you. Then you corrupted me with swear words and dirty jokes.”

“You loved it.” says Ron. “Actually, I heard a joke just today, there’s a woman who--”

“I’ll let you watch the football if this conversation can end right now.”

“Cheers, mate.” says Ron.

“Arse.” says Harry fondly.

 

He and Hermione reheat the take-away while Ron yells enthusiastically at he television.

“I will never forgive Dean for introducing him to live sports.” says Hermione, shaking her head. “Ooh, try this chicken.”

Harry spears a bit with his fork and chews thoughtfully. “Sweet, and tender. Like the caress of a lover that you can’t quite remember.”

“Very poetic,” Hermione assures. “Hang on, I’ve got one.” she picks up a soggy chip and bites the end off. “So crispy, and so inspired. So much so, that I long to taste the entire potato. Five stars.”

It’s another of their Friday night traditions. Ever since Ron began his romance with football-- Hermione, they have moving pictures now!-- Harry and Hermione had been reviewing whatever cheap food had struck their fancy that evening. 

Ron screams victory from the lounge. 

“Are you dying?” Hermione calls.

“Bugger that! No offense, Harry.” Ron yells. Harry and Hermione share a look. “I’m winning. Oh god, I’ve won. I’ve won! Hermione, love of my life! I’ve won!” 

“What’s he won?” Harry inquires.

“He put in ten dollars at the local.” she explains, rolling her eyes. 

Ron falls through the doorway, grinning wide. “More than that, babe. I put in two hundred!”

“Ronald!” Hermione gasps. “That’s completely irresponsible!”

“Who cares! Who cares!? We’ve just won around three thousand. We can go visit your parents!”

Hermione’s eyes go wide, but she crosses her arms. “It doesn’t make gambling so much money away a fiscally g--”

They snog.

Harry leaves. The football is looking like a good prospect.

 

Later, they move to one of the upper balconies. Hermione brings blankets and charms the roof invisible. The conversation floats around what they’ve done all week, before Harry speaks up.

“I spoke to Lucius Malfoy the other day.” he says.

“Why?” Ron asks.

“I got sent by Robards to apologise to him. We had a fight in a meeting last week.”

“About what?” Hermione asks.

“He was looking down on me for my job. And then he started talking about my parents.”

“He’s an evil git.” says Ron. “The ministry must be so fucking corrupt to have let him back into the fold.”

“True.” says Hermione matter-of-factly. “But we can’t get rid of him. You have no idea how much of the ministry was built on Malfoy money. If Lucius called in his loans the whole country would go into deficit.”

Harry sighs. He’d suspected something of the sort. Since he’d gotten on the train to Hogwarts people had been telling him that blood counted, and if blood didn’t count, then your house did. But as far as Harry could see, the only two languages that wizards and witches seemed to understand was power and money. 

“Is it really that much?” Harry asks.

“It’s more.” replies Hermione.

“He wants me to help him get Draco into a leadership position within the corps. Like, image stuff. It’s a vote to be head, so they can’t rely completely on the money. They need to be convincing as well.”

“Hmm.” says Hermione.

“What type of hmm was that?” says Ron.

“What?” 

“Was it a good hmm or a bad hmm? They are distinctly different things.” 

“Both.” says Hermione. “Now, what I say next may be disturbing, so I’d like it if both of you resisted the urge to yell nasty things at me.”

“Okay.” says Harry.

“When have I ever yelled nasty things at you?” Ron asks winningly.

Harry hears the distinct sound of a fist connecting with a stomach. And then Ron’s groan of love and pain.

Hermione sighs. “I don’t think Draco Malfoy would be a terrible candidate. He’s young, yes. But he has a good grasp of the politics. He’s not afraid to fight dirty but, unlike his father, I think his heart is in a good place. And he has a good history with the aurors.”

“But a shit history out of them,” argues Ron. “He was a git, a death eater, and worse, a tornadoes supporter.”

“You need to sort out your priorities.” says Hermione tartly.

“There’s more.” Harry said in a rush. “Hermione, you might know this, but the reason I’m working in reception is because I failed my mental evaluation.”

“Always knew you were bonkers, mate.” Ron says lightly.

“Do shut up.” Harry replies.

“Oh, Harry!” says Hermione. “That’s terrible. I know you had you heart set on being an auror.”

“What?” says Harry. “Is it common knowledge that if you fail your evaluation you can’t work in the corps?”

“Well,” said Hermione. “Not really. But I read it in DMLE: A History, you should really borrow it some time.”

Ron snickers. 

“Well, I didn’t know that. And when I started my job it was under the impression that I would be able to reapply for the aurors, and that I might get in.”

“Impossible,” says Hermione. “Whoever promised you that is in absolute conflict with section 32A of the DMLE code of admissions. If you’ve been deemed unfit, you’ve been deemed unfit. Those are the rules. It’s legislated.”

“Thankyou, Hermione.” says Ron. “For the history lesson.”

“Robards implied that I might be able to get a job, and he’s been bringing me to meetings. Malfoy Senior told me it was because he wanted the boost in reputation. Like, he was trying to make it seem like we were friends, even though I can’t technically be an auror.”

“That is... fishy.” says Hermione.

“Also I began watching him more closely, after Malfoy told me what a terrible leader he is, and I’m starting to agree. He never gives the leading women in the department enough credit, and though I don’t think he’d do anything violent about it, he was very uncomfortable being in the same space with Coote and Stigetti.”

“I don’t like that.” says Hermione, and Harry can hear the frown in her voice.

“Somehow I didn’t think you would.” replies Harry.

“Coote and Stigetti?” Ron asks.

“Gay.” explains Hermione. “If he’s been discriminating in admissions it would explain why most of the aurors are men.”

“Not necessarily,” says Harry. “Most of the applicants are male. Not all, but most. It’s bloody work, and I know this is a stereotype, but there’s not many women I know who’d be best pleased with the idea of having chunks out of their faces, and extensive scarring, and spell damage.” 

“Hmm.” Hermione says again. “It’s still a larger discrepancy than I’d like. I’ll investigate. In the meantime, don’t have any more chats with Lucius Malfoy.”

Harry grimaces. “Sorry. Said I’d meet him for brunch Monday morning.”

“He’s going to try and exploit you.” 

“I won’t let him.” says Harry, and he means it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thankyou for reading! Characters and settings not my own.


End file.
